


The Game's Afoot!

by AiviaNoson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, F/M, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiviaNoson/pseuds/AiviaNoson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John travel to America when they learn of some strange things washing up on the West Coast. It seems like a normal case, but things quickly start turning strange, even by our dynamic duo's standards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game's Afoot!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting here, so I'd appreciate any (constructive) tips or suggestions. I didn't proof read this before submitting, so please excuse any grammatical errors and typos. I'm making this up as I go along, so please feel free to send me some suggestions of where this case should go, or of any romantic scenes you'd like to see. I'll be sure to credit you if I use your idea!
> 
> Enjoy!

1

 

Five weeks. 

Five weeks since Sherlock had solved his last case, and he was teetering dangerously on the brink of madness. Five whole weeks without even the tiniest hint of a murder worth his time. Sure, there were the usual mundane robberies and shootings that got written up in the columns of the newspaper that no one actually cared to read, but there was nothing stimulating. Nobody to challenge Sherlock's skills.

The detective flopped over on his side and sighed dramatically, though there was no one around to appreciate it. John was at the surgery and Mrs. Hudson had left three days ago to visit her sister in Lydd. 

In the back of his mind, Sherlock wished that John would hurry up and get home.

Now, Sherlock didn't mind being alone. In fact, he'd spent most of his life alone and had been quite content that way, but there had always been something to do. To focus on and fill his time with. 

Over the years Sherlock had found many a cure for his boredom. His small addictions which he would eventually overcome. When he was a kid, he'd always be out in the woods looking for dead things. Any time he found a suitable specimen, he would take it home and dissect it using his mothers kitchen knives. Not the safest way of going about it, he knew, but he only used the kitchen knives because his parents had refused to buy their seven year old son a dissection kit.

During his teenage years, he found distraction in reading. If it had printed words on it, even if they were in a different language, Sherlock would read it, and remember every bit of what he read. This was before the organization of his Mind Palace however, so most of the useless facts he'd learned had eventually been deleted.

Upon entering University, books lost their glamour. There was no new input. He'd filled up his head with just about everything, it seemed.

That was when he'd discovered cigarettes. 

Of course he'd known of them before University, there had been several hangouts around his high school where groups of students would smoke when they thought no one was looking. He'd never thought to actually try it for himself, though. It had always seemed an unnecessary waste of time.

One day though, as he was helping one of his classmates proof a paper (the guy was willing to pay, and he needed the money), the other student had unceremoniously pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He took a long drag and held it in, then let it out slowly, as if he genuinely enjoyed the sensation. Sherlock had noted that for a moment, it was as if the young man hadn't even been sitting on the bench next to him. He had a far away look on his face, as if he were someplace better. More interesting, perhaps. When the kid came to, he offered Sherlock one of the small round cylinders, which he took with a small look of apprehension. 

One puff, and he was hooked.

After that, it was rare to see Sherlock Holmes without a cigarette unless he was in class, or in an area that strictly forbade smoking. His family began to worry when they found out, but of course Sherlock ignored them and brushed off their concern. 

It was fine for a while, just the smoking, but soon it wasn't enough. He tried to couple it with drinking, but his first hangover quickly rid him of the notion of becoming an alcoholic. For a while it seemed as if there was nothing else that would be able to stimulate him as he rode out the remaining years of Uni, but then he found cocaine.

Cocaine was the reason he dropped out of Uni half way through and never went back. He never liked it anyway, his classes were all boring and his peers hated him. 

After dropping out, his parent's wouldn't allow him to move back in with them, and stopped sending him his monthly allowance. He had a trust fund, but he wasn't allowed to touch it until he was twenty-four. The time he would have presumably graduated. 

Even so, he needed money for food, a place to live, and to feed his growing addiction. He took up any odd job he could, and often played his violin in the tube stations for tips. It was never enough, though. There was always a decision to be made. He could have two of three things, most of the time: shelter, food, and cocaine. Usually, he picked shelter and cocaine.

The first time he overdosed, he had been twenty-two, and living in a pathetic excuse for a flat in a rundown suburb of London. He was about twenty pounds underweight and pale, preferring to hole himself up in his flat than go out into the sunlight. 

Luckily, the woman who lived in the flat above him found him in the nick of time when she'd come downstairs to see if he wanted any of her leftover casserole. She had immediately called 999, and had him to a hospital within an hour.

Recovery was hard. Mycroft was the only visitor he ever had, and his company was less than desirable for the clinically depressed Sherlock. His brother urged him to go to rehab, but the younger Holmes stubbornly refused. "There's nothing wrong with me," he snapped at Mycroft during one of his rare visits. "It's everyone else who has a problem."

Once released from the hospital, Sherlock began noticing subtle changes around him. His flat had been neatened up while he was gone, and the refrigerator had been fully stocked, mostly with non-perishable food. Mycroft's work, no doubt. The sod knew that if Sherlock were to die, they'd place the blame on his older brother for not taking care of him like he was supposed to. 

Sherlock of course, didn't want the help. He didn't feel as if he needed it. He wasn't addicted, no matter what anybody said. He'd just gotten a bit carried away. To prove it, he made a silent vow to quit. Cold turkey. 

That lasted about a month.

A vicious cycle ensued. It ended with Sherlock in the hospital for one drug related reason or another, and began when he got out, and vowed never to touch any hard substance again. It went on for over two years until Mycroft finally put him in a rehabilitation facility without his permission. 

As much as Sherlock was loathe to admit it, the rehab actually helped. It didn't fully cure him, of course, but the doctors there were able to get it through to him that he really did have a problem, and gave him several suggestions on how to deal with it. 

When he came out of rehab, things got better. He wasn't like those success stories you read about in newspapers, the ones who come out as new people with a brighter outlook on life... If anything, he was more bitter than before. He was bored once again, but he knew that he couldn't run to the one thing that had always kept his mind off of it. He was going to go utterly mad unless he found a more constructive outlet.

It was then that he began to follow the newspapers.

He would read the headlines. The ones that talked about burglars at large, unsolved murders and kidnappings, missing persons reports, anything that the police hadn't already wrapped up. The ones that interested him, he would investigate. His brother had recently gotten a promotion in the government, so the ID Sherlock had gotten off of him proved to be quite useful when he wanted to go places that the regular plebeians of London weren't allowed.

At first, people didn't even know where he came from. The witnesses and suspects assumed he was with the police, and the police usually thought he was some private eye hired by the victims' families or friends. All the while, Sherlock would go undisturbed while he investigated. Until he got noticed, that is.

The case had been a kidnapping. A well known landowner by the name of Roger Downing was missing, and his wife asked for Sherlock by name when the police came around to investigate. Of course, the police had no one on their force by the name of Sherlock Holmes, and asked the Mrs. Downing where she'd heard of him. Apparently, Sherlock had solved a case for one of the Mrs. Downing's friends, who told her about it thinking Sherlock had been with Scotland Yard. He'd gotten very fast results, so naturally Mrs. Downing wanted his services.

Well of course, this scared the officers just a bit. Some kid snooping around private police investigations and getting away with it was inexcusable, even if he was getting results. It took them a while, but they eventually tracked him down and brought him in for questioning.

Finding it laughable that the Yard had finally found out about him after several months of his 'assistance' as he called it, Sherlock answered the questions they put to him, having nothing to hide but his Brother's stolen ID and his drug history. Of course he lied on some points, but he was so natural about it they didn't even ask him to take a lie detector test, much to his relief. After about three days of interrogation and negotiations, they came to an agreement: Sherlock would help the police when they asked for him, but until they did, he wouldn't meddle in their affairs. 

Fair enough, Sherlock thought. They'd be coming to him more than they expected, he knew. Until then though, he began advertising himself as a 'Consulting Detective' to bide his time. He wasn't able to find a fitting, preexisting title to match what he wanted to do, so he made one up. That way, he'd be able to take on private clients, and still help the police when they needed him. No sense unnecessarily tying himself to one or the other.

He set up a website and waited. At first, only people who couldn't afford professionals contacted him. He didn't put up a price for his service, never really intending to charge people for entertaining him. He would be able to dip into his trust fund soon, and he was hanging on until then by using one of Mycroft's pinched credit cards. Still, as his clientele grew, so did the 'gifts' they gave him for his services. By the time he was twenty-six, he had a steadily growing bank account of his own, and was able to rent his own flat. It was dingy, to be sure, but it was his. There was a bit of pride for him in that, he had to admit. There was something satisfying about being able to fully provide for oneself, at least for the basic things. He still relied on Mycroft's money to pay for his chemistry things and other tools he kept handy, but his brother either never found out, or simply didn't say anything. Sherlock was almost certain it was the latter. Mycroft was hardly dense.

Things settled into a pleasant sort of arrhythmic pattern for Sherlock. Most of the time he'd have some case or another going, with a few from Scotland Yard ever in the mix, but there were slow periods as well, and that was where the consulting detective struggled. During those points in time, Sherlock would hole himself up in his flat and sulk. He'd lie on the couch, play violin for hours at a stretch, and hungrily scan his website and the papers for anything remotely interesting.

Once or twice though, when nothing came up for three or four weeks straight, Sherlock cracked. Insane with boredom, he would go out in the middle of the night to a local dealer and stock up, then then get utterly wasted on cocaine. The quality didn't matter as long as there was enough to put him under for a few days. He found though, that as soon as another case popped up, the drug lost its allure, and he was able to focus on his work. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was very okay with this.

He went on like that for a good while, steadily building his reputation and using the cocaine to get through the slow periods. All was well until he accidentally set fire to his flat. The landlord was obviously unhappy, and immediately evicted Sherlock after demanding payment for the damages. With a severe dent in his savings and no place to go (he'd die before asking Mycroft to put him up), he started looking for a flatmate. 

Thank God for Mike Stamford. Sherlock could hardly stand him, but he supposed he'd always owe him for introducing him to his first real friend.

At first, John Watson had only been an intriguing figure. A short, friendly man who just so happened to be and ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp who was also looking for a someone to split the rent with. But, after having him along on a case, watching him interact with other people of average intelligence, getting to know him further... It seemed that there was more to him than met the eye. 

He tolerated Sherlock, for one thing, and didn't immediately write him off as a psychopath, like so many people did. He was cleverer than the plebeians at the Yard. Only slightly, but still. He had potential, which was helped along by a penchant for adventure. Sherlock quickly grew fond of him.

Acquaintanceship became friendship, and friendship slowly began to morph into something more. Something Sherlock couldn't quite explain, which upset him on a deeper level than anything really ever had, though he'd never show it.

It started with the looks John would give him, and the things he'd say from time to time. Soon after they began living together, Sherlock came to either crave or avoid certain things John would do or say. "Fantastic", "Brilliant", and "Amazing", were always welcome forms of praise, along with the more colorful phrases the man would sometimes blurt out, as well as the proud, amazed, and happy looks that he sometimes tossed Sherlock's way. The detective did his best to avoid disapproving glares and phrases such as "A bit not good." 

He did a good job of hiding it, he thought. God forbid John ever find out his feelings and leave. Sherlock knew the man was straight, no matter what other people who saw them together assumed. He professed his heterosexuality whenever someone began to get the wrong idea, and vehemently went on to explain it to whoever made the mistake until they accepted the fact that he and Sherlock were not in fact together.

It bothered Sherlock, yes, but he kept it hidden like he always did. Just like he kept it hidden that he wasn't just being his normal self around John's girlfriends, but actively trying to get rid of them. It didn't take much, just an extra snide remark here or there, the casual mention of one or three of John's many and ever growing list of exes. They were leaving quicker and quicker, the more Sherlock practiced.

At the moment though, John was single, which quieted Sherlock's foul mood just the slightest bit. It helped to know that John didn't have anywhere better to be at the end of the day than with him in the flat, trying to get him to eat or move or bathe. Most people would call him a prat, but Sherlock just liked the attention. 

He was just mulling over that particular vice of his when John burst into the flat, sweating and quite out of breath.

"Got... a case... for you..." he said between gasps. Sherlock could tell by the state of his clothes and the shortness of his breath that he hadn't been able to catch a cab home, and had sprinted all the way from the tube station.

Sherlock sat up on the sofa, an eyebrow raised in question. "Do you? Well let's hear the details, then." His tone was nonchalant and easy, but really he was already buzzing with anticipation. A case? After all this time? And why would someone take it to John, and not Sherlock himself? So many questions. "Start with how the case came to you. Who brought your attention to it?"

John by this time had shed his coat and flopped down in his armchair. "Gimme a moment, would you?" he asked, his chest still heaving visibly. He had to start working out again, Jesus.

"Alright, but only a brief one. You wouldn't sprint all the way home just to leave me hanging for an hour."

John nodded, and after he'd recovered himself a bit more, began to tell Sherlock about the case.


End file.
